Also, Solitude Is Boring

Disclaimer: Read this with a healthy dose of sarcasm.

I just need to get this off of my chest: I AM SO TIRED OF SPENDING WEEK AFTER WEEK IN MY HOUSE.

Phew. Okay, good to go. And good thing, because I really have nothing else to say about being unemployed and I have no intention of blogging about being unemployed.

Or do I? Can I make that funny? Or will it just come across as sad and pitiful?

I should be enjoying this, right? I thought I would, too, and then I remembered I'd be unemployed during the Winter, which is so god awful that I can't even put it into words. To spend the most depressing months and shortest days of the year in solitude (not constant solitude, obviously; it's not like I'm alone 24/7) can take quite a toll on your mind, especially if it's as feeble and wobbly as mine. If I could have rigged this up so I would have been unemployed during the Spring and Summer, I would have been set. Who doesn't want to have those seasons off? Of course, nothing ever works out the way you hope, especially if you're me.

Also, I find myself talking to our cats, and even our fish, on a daily basis. Like, we have conversations. Except when I say "we" I obviously mean "me" because the cats can't speak outside of their typical cat noises. Which means I spend a great deal of my time just talking to myself. Annoying.

Bill and I were talking last night about the crazy shit that just runs through your mind throughout any given day. Would you share most of your bizarre, freakish, creepy thoughts with people? I wouldn't. I'd probably be locked up, either in jail or in an institution of some sort. Travis, Interrupted. As long as someone can sneak me cartons of cigarettes. Anyway, we were talking about this and I said, "You know, I should try writing down all of my random thoughts one day." You know, since I don't have a job. And clearly I have better things to do than actually look for one. Like writing down the random synapse firings I experience in one day. Or writing this blog. See? My life is important. I do important, relevant things.

That makes it sound like I'm having some kind of existential crisis, I know. "My life is important." Wah wah, blah blah blah. I'm not. Having an existential crisis, that is. I don't really even care what purpose I serve in the grand scheme of things, and outside of some "experiments" in college (and watching i ♥ huckabees) I could never really be bothered to even ponder it. So I know that's not the problem, at least not right now. I'm sure by the time I hit 30 I'll be in the midst of one. It's just how I roll. All crises come in due time to those who believe that crises find them.

So I've managed to pseudo-blog about being unemployed and I have also displayed some of the utterly inane and pitiful thoughts that can just ravage my brain at any given moment. It's good to see my B.A. in Creative Writing is really serving its purpose.

My grandparents would be so proud.